


Metaphors

by Justine (Sanj)



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Episode Related: The Sentinel: by Blair Sandburg, First Times, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-05-10
Updated: 1999-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 01:35:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/792511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sanj/pseuds/Justine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An eventful day shortly after TSbyBS.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Metaphors

**Author's Note:**

> A lot of people looked at this last summer and made it much, much better. If this story looks familiar, you'll know you were one of them. I wanted something edgy and contentious, but some days you just get ice cream and romps and pillow talk.
> 
> For Amirin and Smaragd, who strong-armed me so sweetly at Connexions, and especially for Kelyn, on the occasion of her birthday. Thanks for existing, chica.
> 
>  
> 
> Author's disclaimer: If they were mine, would I be posting this story from a plastic table, sitting on top of my housemate's laundry, in the brief few moments in between ten-dollar-an-hour contract jobs? No, I tell you, I would be sipping Mai Tais in Tahiti, getting my feet rubbed by Michelle Pfeiffer, and I would still have a successful show on the air, see, because I know what's good for these men, which Pet Fly clearly didn't. So there.

Sandburg threw the Williamson folder down into the "out" bin. "Out. Done." 

"Hold on a second," I muttered, and scribbled my signature on the Brewer report, still warm from the printer. "Sign." The PD had been crazy for the last month, with anybody even vaguely able-bodied after Zeller's stunt working overtime. There'd been a heat wave the previous week, and things had finally slowed down enough to catch up on the paperwork. Even the crooks were too hot to move. 

"Finally." Sandburg shook the pen, looked up at me with a grin and a flourish. "Pay attention. This is the last time I do this." And he signed "Blair Sandburg (Police Observer)" at the bottom, like he had done almost every day for the past three years. 

The next report he signed, it would be as my partner -- officially, with a badge number. It felt strange. "We should maybe frame it. Might be famous in a couple of years." 

Strange that that was the last one; strange that he was really going through with it. 

"Nah," he shrugged -- a good imitation of nonchalance. "This is just the last one of an era. Last of a set. Now, the report on the Switchman case, that was our first -- huh. Did I even help write that?" 

"It wasn't until the Juno case, I think," I said. The first case we'd had to lie about: Danny's murder. I kept my voice light, playing along. "Remember, you were strict-ly an observer for a little while there." 

"Funny, I didn't feel very observerish. I don't think." Sandburg tossed the Brewer folder into the out bin with its fellow and stretched, his t-shirt pulling out of his khakis. "We're done. There's still a Sunday afternoon left of our weekend. Let's get out of here before Simon rolls out here and finds us something else to do." 

That sounded like a plan to me. 

We took the elevator down; the change in air damn near killed me when we walked out of the building. "Christ." You could see the heat rising in waves off of the pavement. Taste the ozone. I swear one day I'm going to run away to the Yukon. Or Greenland. Somewhere cold and clean and pure. 

"Ice cream," Sandburg decided, and dragged me along. "Botticelli's." 

We walked out into the most humid July afternoon I could remember, not really talking. We were getting used to the long, speculative looks from strangers. I overheard a few "look, isn't-that-that-guy" kind of whispers, sometimes talking about me, sometimes Sandburg, always surprised we were still together. 

Botticelli's was nearly in the student-and-starving-bohemian district, which after the whole dissertation business was touchy territory for Sandburg. But they had homemade ice cream with no preservatives -- best in the state, and with enough weird flavors to keep Sandburg happy. So we went, standing in line because it was mid-afternoon on Sunday. 

By the time we'd nearly reached the counter, people stopped staring at us sideways -- one guy came right up. A blond guy, tall, clean-cut, muscle shirt. I try not to act on assumptions, but we all know people make them: this guy was a yuppie (Rolex), worked out at Monroe's Gym or maybe Gold's (nice glutes), desk job (flabby hands), definitely gay (a number of indicators, the most convincing of which had to do with scent). "Blair?" the man asked, his voice timorous and sweet; I removed 'yuppie'. And underlined 'gay'. 

Sandburg actually blinked, twice. "Andrew? My god -- hi! When did you get back?" And then he moved towards the guy, apparently uncertain whether to hug or shake hands. 

"Just in time to see the media hounding your ass," Andrew said. "It's not true, right? You wouldn't lie in your dissertation -- hello," Andrew said, catching himself, noticing me for the first time. 

"Oh. Sorry. Sandburg hesitated briefly, and then gestured between me and his friend. "Jim, Andrew. Andrew, Jim." 

"Andrew-not-Andy MacBride," Andrew said, shaking my hand with a firm grip that surprised me. "And you're Detective Ellison. I saw the news. You guys are still together after all that?" 

There was the slightest hesitation before the word 'together' that made me raise an eyebrow at Sandburg. 

"We're still friends, yeah," Sandburg said blithely, breezing past any subtext. 

As usual. 

"So about that dissertation thing..." Andrew started. "You really falsified your research?" 

"It's complicated," Sandburg said awkwardly. 

"Sandburg's not a liar," I said. Hating that he wouldn't do this for himself. "He never handed the dissertation in -- this crooked publisher got a hold of some other stuff he was doing, speculative stuff. He would never lie to his committee." 

"So you really can hear a pin drop across a room?" 

"A big enough pin," Sandburg said, "in a quiet enough room." 

"Riiiight." Andrew-not-Andy grinned at us both. I wondered what he believed, and whether it was anything like the truth. 

"So," Sandburg added, "are you seeing anyone?" 

"Oh, God, yeah. Hang on." He beckoned to a taller, skinnier version of himself -- one that didn't seem to sweat. "Come over here. Blair, this is my partner, Edward; I met him when I was on the dig in Greece. Edward, this is Blair, we were in undergrad together?" 

" _The_ Blair?" Edward (apparently not-Ed) asked with a frown. He didn't offer to shake hands, but then he was holding a couple gallons of hand-packed. 

"Yeah, I guess so." Blair looked embarrassed. "Nice work here, Edward. Seriously." 

"And Blair's friend Jim," Andrew added. I wondered what the distinction between "friend" and "partner" was in Andrew-not-Andy's mind, and bet it was something different from my own. 

"Look, we've got the ice cream melting," Edward half-sniped to Andrew, "and there're people back at the house." 

"You're welcome to join us," Andrew added. 

"No," Sandburg said quickly, "I mean, thanks, that's cool, but we're busy." I didn't blame him; Edward seemed distinctly unfriendly. "Just. Andrew. Jesus. It's really good to see you." 

Andrew embraced Sandburg, kissed his cheek. "I miss you," he whispered into Sandburg's ear. 

It was not a just-friends hug, I decided, and my opinion was corroborated by the way Sandburg said, "You too. A lot." And the way he said to Andrew's partner, "Edward -- It was good to meet you" -- turning on the vulnerability rather than the charm, basically offering his neck to the guy. "Take care of him, okay?" 

Edward seemed to relax a little. "Okay. Yeah." 

"Call me," Andrew said fervently to Blair, as the couple walked off. 

Sandburg looked up at me. "Well," he said awkwardly, and the way he said it made me face what had just happened. 

"Well," I said, uncertain of how to continue. Don't panic, I decided. "That was different." 

To understate the case wildly. 

"Yeah." Ever eager to escape questioning, Sandburg bounded up to the ice cream counter. "Scoop of black raspberry, scoop of ginger, in a chocolate waffle cone, please." 

Sandburg knows he's my best friend; truth to tell, he's a lot more than that. But there he was sweating about whether I was going to cause a scene over Andrew, over this sudden change in everything, completely unaware that I was okay with it. 

More than okay. 

I wanted to make light of it, let him know that I'd let him get away with a murder, probably, never mind an ex-boyfriend. "I'll have _cherry_ ," I told the ice cream guy, sweetly. "No, wait, surprise me. I'll have _vanilla_." 

You could almost smell the relief. "He'll have maple walnut," Sandburg corrected, swatting me, "and he's an asshole." 

"How do you know I want maple walnut?" 

"You do, don't you?" 

"That's not the point," I resisted, as I accepted took the plain sugar cone of maple walnut. Sandburg paid. 

We walked out of Botticelli's; I was still aware of the crowd, the staring, the whispered mutters. It hurt. I wanted to say, "It's easy. I'm a mutant and he's a genius. Together, we fight crime." But neither of us could ever take back Sandburg's retraction. 

It'd been too much; he should have taken the money and split. There was a time I would have preferred that, even if it had meant electrodes and a padded cell at Quantico. He'd had so many different loyalties; I'd never been able to really trust him. Or at least I had told myself that. Made it a convenient excuse. 

And then he'd given it all up. For me. 

I couldn't pay that back. I didn't know what to do to make it right with him. 

"So, where now?" Blair asked nonchalantly, his lips sucking in the last clump of black raspberry, his tongue starting in on the ginger. I looked away, considered the landscape, shutting out voices and seeking for cool air. 

Repress. Deny. Obfuscate. The Sandburg and Ellison Tango. 

"Monument Park?" I suggested. 

"Works for me. There'll be a breeze off the harbor." 

We were silent for three of the four blocks to the harbor, when I finally decided to say something about it. "You don't date guys." 

"Um, hello," Blair said, immediately defensive. "You don't have access to that decision." 

"I didn't mean it like that, Chief. I meant, 'you don't date guys, right?'" 

"Still sounds kinda prescriptive from where I'm standing." 

"Well, it's not. It's... diagnostic." 

Blair shrugged, accepting that, and walked a bit more before he said, "Andrew was, like, ten years ago. People experiment in college, Jim. They do that. That's what college is there for." He was embarrassed about it. Or maybe worried that I'd judge him; I couldn't tell. 

I kept my voice neutral. "And what were the results of these experiments?" 

"That I liked Andrew a hell of a lot. Specifically. And that I really, really like girls, generally. And that was the extent of my findings at that time. Okay?" 

"They're your sheets, Sandburg. Mess 'em up however you want to." 

"Thank you." He sounded a little relieved, like we'd been about to have a discussion that he didn't want. 

"Just," I started, and caught his wary look. "You could have mentioned, was all." 

"If the topic had come up," Blair said, "I would have said something." 

I hated that attitude in myself, which was why I said, "So, what, your sexuality's whatever you need it to be at the time? Just follow your dick?" 

Shouldn't have left myself wide open like that, though. He took advantage immediately. 

"Excuse me?" Sandburg's a fighter; don't let him fool you. "Follow _my_ dick? Let me say a few words to you, Jim. 'Laura'. 'Emily'. 'Michelle'. 'Lila'. 'Veronica'. 'Mata Hari complex'. These are words that should mean something to you." 

"You missed one." Alex. 

"I skipped her on purpose. That was different." 

"So we're just going to not ever talk about her?" 

"Whatever. She's just another elephant in the living room as far as I'm concerned." 

"A what?" 

"People living with addiction have a tiger in their living room? Denial? You know." 

"Yeah, I know, but elephants?" We'd entered the wonderful world of Sandburg again; it was all I could do not to laugh. 

"Well, I figured, stay away from the potential confusion of jungle cats. Besides, it's not addiction, there's just these huge things we pretend not to see. So, elephants." 

"You seem very proud of this metaphor." 

"I'm so proud, maybe I'll get Naomi to send it to Sid. Wherever he's working now." 

"Seven-Eleven, if he's got any luck. You're changing the subject again. Just so you know." 

"I'm well aware of that, actually." Blair frowned at the remainder of his ice cream cone and threw it in the trash. 

It was like a goddamn interrogation -- so much so that I felt the familiar adrenaline rush. I slid onto a park bench, keeping my cool, pretending Sandburg was just some skinny, cagey perpetrator, worming around the point. 

"So," I said, sitting down on a park bench. "Alex is an elephant." 

"That's kind of poetic, don't you think? Good-bye, deadly jaguar babe. Hello, Alex the brain-fried elephant." 

"Sitting in our living room." 

"That's right." 

"The dissertation? Another elephant?" 

"Mmm," Sandburg said, perching next to me on the bench. "Dead elephant. Poor little guy never had a chance." 

"Mutated elephant," I suggested. "There's new issues." 

"Yeah, okay. _Outed_ elephant." 

"Speaking of which, Chief...." I wasn't sure I wanted to spill it; I just wanted him to know that he didn't have to back and file over the Andrew thing. 

He didn't let me get any further. "Hold it." 

"What?" 

"What is my potential, that is to say, currently non-kinetic, interest in guys doing in our living room? That's a, what, a personal elephant. Andrew never did shit to you." 

"Sandburg." I hesitated, but only for a moment. You get tired of the forbidden topics after a while, and this was fast becoming one. "Look," I told him. "We have matching personal elephants, okay?" 

"You dated Andrew?" Blair teased automatically, but I saw the curiosity on his face. 

"Well, his name was Rick, actually, but yeah." 

I don't think I'd ever managed to truly stun Sandburg before. "Jesus, Jim." 

"Chief--" 

"No, look, it's cool. Just." 

"I could have mentioned." 

"Yeah." 

"Which would have got us where, exactly?" 

"We would pick the hottest fucking day of the year to finally have this discussion." 

"Which would have gotten us where," I pressed. 

"I don't know. Somewhere different?" Blair scooted a little closer on the park bench, brushed a quick hand across my own. It was a touch that could have been an apology, or could have been a come-on. A safe choice. 

I was feeling a little more reckless, which was maybe why I reached up for Blair's hair, ran my hand through his curls, cupped his jaw in my palm. "Maybe. You think?" 

Blair sighed, way too deep of a sigh, and leaned into it. "I think maybe, yeah." He touched my hand on his cheek, slid his hand up my arm, and about the time he got his hand around the back of my head we were already kissing. 

Neither black raspberry not ginger ice cream go very well with the taste of maple walnut. Like it mattered. He was alive and warm and _there_ , kissing me, ten minutes from remote possibility to absolute certainty. 

It was starting to get serious, fast, when Blair broke away from me. "We're being publicly lewd," he said, amazed, almost giggling. 

I whipped my head around, fast, looking for bystanders. "If somebody saw us, it'll be on the eleven o'clock news," I told him; he nodded and checked along with me. But there was no one around; Momument Park isn't that big a place, our spot was pretty secluded, and the wind had changed. 

"On the other hand...." I couldn't stop touching his face. "On the other hand, Chief, is this our city, or what? Don't destined protectors get a little slack?" 

He stared at me, and then whooped, "Finally! Finally!" He actually straddled me, right there on the park bench, and kissed me, like a reward. "Three and a half years, and you finally believe my paradigm. I don't know why I'm happier -- 'cause of this," he kissed me again -- "or, oh...," and we stayed that way. 

He never finished his thought. While we were kissing, there was a tremendous clap of thunder, and you could see the lightning over the ocean, a quarter-mile away. Rain came down in heavy drops, growing into a squall even as we started to notice it. 

"I never saw this coming," I said, as the rain began to pour down over us; I can usually sense a thunderstorm at least few hours beforehand. 

He slid down off of me. "What, the rain, or -- ?" And we both started to laugh, because we hadn't seen any of this coming, or at least I hadn't. Not at all. 

"Race you home," he added, and took off like a shot, into the rain. My partner, the fastest sprinter in Cascade, tearing up the fifteen blocks between Monument Park and home. 

He's not a cross-country man, though, so despite his little head start, I caught up to him on East Marguerite and started to make him earn it. "Cheaters never prosper, Sandburg," I told him. 

"Tell it to the judge, _Ellison_ ," he laughed, and sped up. The little shit had been waiting for me.... 

I could've tackled him crossing over to Prospect, but it was all concrete and I might've hurt him, so instead I just kept running, running for the pleasure of it, thinking about cats and mice, and that there was never a cat as happy as I was going to be when I caught Sandburg -- 

\-- which I did, finally, as he was unlocking the door outside the loft, water pouring off of both of us. I scooped him up as he opened the door and then kicked the door shut, exhausted, barely managing him onto the kitchen table. 

"Whoa!" he said, and then laughed some more, and kissed me again, and then we were pulling at each other's wet clothes, and I was, I don't know, feeling something I couldn't even understand at first, a crazy, adrenaline-pumped, dizzy kind of happiness. 

Joy. 

We backed away from each other in a trance; Sandburg started wringing out his hair and I staggered toward the bathroom for towels. We mopped up the floor with two and then started drying off each other. 

"Don't cut it," I said, wrapping a towel around his head. "It's bullshit." And meaning, somehow, not only 'don't cut the hair' but also 'don't change yourself just for me'. 

"It grows back," he said, and I heard 'don't worry'. 

We were damp, and naked, and the humidity had dropped dramatically, and we were all tangled up in each other, and it was incredible. We ended up in the living room, still standing, kissing, and it wasn't long before we reached an impasse, and laughed a little at each other, awkwardly. 

It was the same stupid thing that had kept us, presumably, from talking about this, or about Alex, or about the dissertation. Somebody would have had to be first. First to drop to his knees, in this case. First to bend, I guess, in any of the others. And we're both pretty stubborn, Sandburg and I. 

We were laughing, not having to say anything, both of us thinking the same thing. Blair touched his head to my chin, shaking his head slightly. 

"Come here," he said, finally, and slid his hand down to my cock. 

"Whoa." It'd been a while, and I was used to foreplay -- Blair skipped steps two, three, and four, and went straight from kissing to grabbing. 

"Did you want to wait?" he asked, taking my hand, about to guide me into a mirror position. "Are we good, here?" And he rocked up against me, and I caught up to him, fast. 

I wasn't sure whether he was taking the initiative, or if I was, and I'm sure he engineered it that way, which was fine with me. We fell onto the couch, then fell off of that, too -- we were all over each other, and neither of us in a mood for restraint. 

"We rolled off the ta-ble," Blair sang, rolling on top of me, "and onto the floor..." 

If you put your tongue into Sandburg's mouth to shut him up, he'll just bite you. 

Actually, he was nowhere near as vocal as I'd figured he would be, not near the end -- I was doing most of the talking by then. He was just making these little "oh, oh" noises, just breath, but low, not like a woman. It went straight to my gut, and I lost it, right there. Blair took a couple minutes longer, both of us working him, which throws out the theory about the relationship between age and stamina, but what the hell, I wasn't going to argue about it. 

We laid there, on the floor, both of us filthy and exhausted, and looked up at the ceiling, still holding each other's sticky hands, until finally Blair got up and headed for the shower, and I followed him. 

I'd had my share of fantasies about Sandburg and the shower, even then, but we just got clean and warm, sort of nuzzling each other. I headed upstairs, urging him to join me -- again without a lot of talk, just, "c'mere." We fell asleep there, on my bed, spooned together like an old couple. 

It was ... unreal. I didn't trust it. I expected to wake up and find him gone -- not because I didn't trust him, just because there was no way that it could have happened. 

But when I woke up, a little while later, he was still there, just watching me sleep. 

"When did you know?" I asked him in a whisper. He felt it too, I could see it -- if we talked too loudly, it would all go away. 

I can't read his mind, though. "Know?" he asked, uncertain. 

"That you wanted this." 

He ran his fingers along my hip, pulled me a little closer. "Feels like forever. You?" 

"It was pretty recent, actually," I admitted, and it was clear that wasn't the answer he'd wanted. "I knew I loved you first. I mean more than just best friends. I realized it after the thing with Alex." 

"You love me?" his voice was low, not startled, but he seemed pleased. 

"Hadn't I better?" I asked. His skin was strange to the touch -- rough in some spots, smooth in others; hot here, clammy there, hairy almost everywhere. 

Real, maybe. 

"Yeah." he poked me a little in the ribs. "Just. It's nice to hear, that's all." 

We lay there a few more minutes, and then he spoke again. "So what, dramatic scene, dead body, you realized all your hopes and dreams had died with me, was that it?" 

"You don't need to be so flippant about it." 

"Actually," he said quietly, "I do. If I think about it too hard.... " He bit his lip and rolled away from me. I could almost hear him putting his next words together. "It hurt so much to see you shut me out like that. And I didn't know what to do. It just snowballed out of control, and I think -- I have to think -- that there wasn't any way, being the people that we were, that we could have stopped it. 

"And that scares me shitless, Jim. Because what if it happens again?" 

I eased him onto his back and looked at him, one hand flat on his chest, until he could see that I was serious. "It's not going to." 

He took a deep breath and pressed his lips together. Keeping his temper. "The dissertation? What was that?" 

Well, besides that. "I really believed you'd leaked it, Chief." 

"And what kind of bullshit is that?" he asked, sitting up. 

You don't trust me, I could hear him saying. And I hadn't. Not with Alex, and not with the dissertation. I couldn't believe in his loyalty, and why should he stay loyal when I couldn't believe in him? 

Elephants, hell, I thought. It was all one fucking mammoth. 

"You were going to publish it, right?" 

He rubbed at his face. "Yes, No. I don't know. I had to write it -- that much I was sure about. I'm still not sorry I wrote it." 

The truth was, neither was I. It was hard to talk about it, but part of me liked that my life was going into Sandburg's book. Part of me hated it with a passion I hadn't even known I had. And now it was dead. I didn't know what to say, so I fell back on teasing. "It was pretty good, actually. It wasn't worth a million dollars, maybe --" 

"Thanks so much," he said automatically, then, "You read it?" 

"Yeah. Figured I'd better know what was in it," I shrugged, but I was looking in his eye, to see if he was angry. It seemed not. "It was good, Chief. You're a good writer. I'm no literary critic or anything...." 

He looked pleased -- that quiet look he gets when he's not showing off his grin -- the one when he's really happy about something. "Thanks, Jim." 

Like whether I liked his dissertation or not actually gave it a post-mortem validity. Maybe in his head, it did. 

I wanted to get back on track. We weren't ever going to have this discussion again, if I could help it. "Chief. I don't know how to say this, but with the dissertation... It was hard to trust you. It's the hardest thing I've ever done. You're in so close. You know so much. And you had all these divided loyalties." 

He took that in, considering. I could tell he didn't want to screw this up, either. "I thought I'd proven to you that you were my first priority." 

"Consistently." 

"Then --" 

"You could leave." I said it fast. "I can't. I can't turn this off." I made the vague gesture between us that had grown to mean "sentinel and guide." 

"You think I can?" Blair asked, and before I could react, he went on. "I could have left the friendship -- before I passed up Borneo. I could have left the guide thing -- before Incacha entrusted me with it. I got kind of stuck, Jim, after I came back from the _dead_ and our spirit guides _merged_ \-- did you miss that?" 

"No," I said, staring at him. I'd say he's beautiful when he's angry, but it's a cliche, and it doesn't quite cover it. He's fierce. Perfect. He's got this... power, this voice -- 

"I'm committed here," he said. "I think my life depends upon it. I know yours does." 

I nodded, unable to speak, and pulled him close. "I get it," I croaked into his shoulder. "I get it, Chief." 

"Good," he said, and his voice was his own again. 

He started tracing his hands down my back, and I kissed him, encouraging him. 

Still. "The academy --" 

"I'm your partner," he said. "I don't know what that means yet. You've got to _trust me_ \--" he poked me in the ribs on those two words -- "to figure that out." 

"Incacha said you were a shaman," I reminded him. 

"I know that. It makes Alex a rite of passage, do you get that? And the university. Die to your old life. I got that part already." 

"So you're a genius," I told him, tracing the stubble on his chin. 

"If only," he said ruefully. "But I've got the identity part down, anyway. But what does a shaman do in modern urban society?" 

I only knew one shaman, other than Blair. "Incacha fought alongside the warriors, usually. He wasn't a great fighter, but he was smart, and knew strategy." I thought back. "Sometimes he sat in council with the elders, or he taught the children. He called on the spirits when there was trouble." 

Blair nodded, taking this in, and my conscious mind finally caught the analogy. "He negotiated treaties with the evil spirits, or with hostile tribes. Helped me with my senses, of course." 

"Of course," he said, seeing that I got it. 

"And fucked me twice a day," I added, knowing 'Cacha would appreciate the joke. Wherever he was. 

Blair made a sound like a squished chew toy. "Really?" he managed after a moment. 

"Memory's such a capricious thing," I said. "He might have." 

"Ah," he said. "So you're saying that time management was a bitch." 

"He had to prioritize." 

"I see." He ran his hands down my back, pulled away from me, eased me onto my stomach. 

"What are you doing?" 

"Trust me," he said, and caressed my back, easing me into the bed. 

Those hands. 

They were callused and firm -- not really scholar's hands. They could drive a rig as easily as they could play guitar, or skim reverently over the walls of an ancient temple. 

He'd caught a detonator in them once, and defused a bomb. The last time I'd placed a gun in them -- sacrilege -- they hadn't even trembled. 

There'd been times I'd been in those hands, guiding me when I couldn't see, pointing me in the right direction, pushing and pulling me away from self-destruction. Bandaging wounds. Soothing grief. 

I knew his hands well, and now they undid me, running gently over my ass, like I was a wild animal that might bite him. 

"Now," he said after a little while, and peered into my nightstand. I knew what he would find, and laughed as he cataloged it -- "a comb, some change, safety pins, somebody's little hair-scrunchy thing...." 

"I forget whose," I said, not looking up. 

"Not yours, I assume. Athlete's foot cream -- ah, the mystery of the white socks is solved. I thought maybe you had a fetish." 

"Don't get your hopes up," I mumbled into the pillow. 

"And a big no on condoms." 

This got my attention, and I picked my head up to check. "Must be out," I said, embarrassed. Or relieved. I wasn't sure. 

He made a tsk, tsk noise. "I thought you'd been a boy scout." He kissed me between my shoulder blades. "I'll be back," he said, and slipped off the bed. 

I watched him walk downstairs in the dark, carefully, feeling against the wall, and remembered he couldn't see in the dark. He slipped into his own room and came back upstairs with his backpack. 

"You can unpack that right there," I told him. 

"I might just," he said, coming back to bed with me. It was still hot outside but his heat felt good, energizing, the weight of him on my back. I half-zoned into it, his scent and warmth. 

And then his hands parted my ass, and I was completely alert. 

He was going to fuck me, I thought, to prove that I trusted him. "I trust you," I said, scared. 

"That's not the issue," he said, easing one hand over my body. "Tell me if you want this. Talk to me." I could hear the worry, that he'd pushed me into something I didn't want. 

And the thing is, I'd never let anybody, ever, near my ass. Women pinched it sometimes. "I've always been... where you are," I managed. 

"You want that now?" 

"You ever -- ?" 

"What we did earlier, that's all I know," he said. "But I thought..." he ran a finger around my hole, just one finger, slick and warm. "You seemed to like this. Tell me." 

"I like it," I said, but I don't know how or if he heard me. "More," I said, loud enough, but he'd already begun to put his finger inside. 

Blair Sandburg can lead me into some strange and beautiful things -- but I'd never expected to enjoy his fingers, and then his cock, inside of me. He hit something -- my prostate, I guess, but it wasn't just physical, it was -- 

It _stood_ for something. It was sex, and it was me and Blair, and that was enough, but it was everything else, too, all that mattered, in and out of me, slowly, until I got used to it and started to move with him, bodies matched in this, remembering the way I'd chased him in the rain. 

Caught you, I thought. 

It was... a wonder, and Blair had led me there. 

The orgasm wasn't even the best part. I could feel him inside of me, him and the condom, which I resented -- not because of the way it felt as much as it meant there was still a barrier there, even a latex one. And yet, he wouldn't have betrayed my trust by going bare, even if we'd both wanted to. 

"Are you all right?" he asked after a while. It turns out we're both pretty quiet at this stage. 

"How did you know?" He'd hit this part of me I hadn't even known was there, and he'd gone for it on the first try. 

He was my undoing. 

"I love you," he said, as if that explained everything. 

"Oh," I said. Because it did. 

* * *

End

 


End file.
